Neo-hippie on a train...

A train station, equal to all train stations, and there he was.
It wasn't that late, 19 p.m. but he was rather sleepy, the day had been quite full, and work had been quite hard.
He got into one of those weird yellow and red trains, and it was kind of full. Found a place to sit, and scanned his bag for the computer.
Found his headphones and pressed play on Joni Mitchell's Blue. A smile ripped his right cheek, a neo-hippie in formal wearing, wasn't that something?
She was standing two meters away from him, got late to the train, and in a matter of two or three minutes there was no space left to sit. She turned her head and their eyes linked in a green brown explosion that lasted for a few seconds, embarrassed she looked away, but he was already jinxed. Her brown red hair was amazing, and the hair in front of her forehead warmed his whole day.
"Do you want do you want do you want to dance with me baby
Do you want to take a chance on maybe finding some sweet romance with me baby, well come on" Mitchell sang in his ears.
And he just felt like getting up and sharing that song with her, but the formal side of him got the better of that impulse. Nevertheless he kept searching her with his eyes, but someone was now standing in the middle of their eye line.
The trains started moving, and it was already dark on the outside of the window, so apart for some street lamps there was not much that he could see… But, wait, reflected in the window he could see the inside of the train, and, he could catch a better view of her angular nose between her hair, completely hooked he couldn't stop searching for the rest of her face. She got a small notebook from her purse and inclined her head to read it, and he could suddenly see her small red lips, and her round chin. He never wished he could draw as much as in this moment, it wasn't like he was searching for romance or anything, but her really wanted to capture her beauty right here.
And surprisingly he wasn't over thinking, there were no ifs and buts in his mind, his imagination wasn't shooting out, the was only her brown eyes, her cute face, and that hand holding her cheeks making her look like a child. She looked in the direction of the mirror, once, right into his eyes again, but, without noticing him because of the reflection, ten or fifteen seconds later she did it again, as if she was really searching for that explosion again.
And it hitter him, he was finally living the moment, he was NOW, HERE, not tomorrow somewhere else, not yesterday in a similar situation with a different outcome, he was now, and that relieved him. Even after getting a job, getting his degree, getting his "priorities in check", he could still be just what was around him, not flying imagination not daydreaming, just accepting his life as part of the world, and that made him feel so pure, so happy.
He could finally be, and he just wanted to whisper that into her hear, "You made me realize I can live NOW".
That full almost red brown hair, those brown eyes, as deep as they come, that big light brown coat on top of her slim blue jeans… As cute as they come, as epiphanic as dreams.
"They won't give peace a chance, that was just a dream some of us had" Joni said…
"Stop complaining! Peace is here, peace is this realization Mitchell, trust me."
And there it was, the neo-hippie in him was back. In spite of the job, of the education, of the money problems and the grey…

Peace is a moment like that. Whatever they say, that is peace…
Peace is full hair, and deep eyes, thin calm voice, and hold back smiles, peace is Goldie Hawn when she was young…
Peace is an explosion, how ironic is that?

J's birthday

And tradition's are to be kept, so J. there you go:



"It's her. I'm sure it's her" he thought
And the uncertainty he should feel was destroyed by his wish.
No stone resisted, and the soil of his insecurity was salted so it could never grow again.
While he walked up the hill in direction to the old fortress the fog was getting more and more dense, wetting his clothes and his hair, and waking him up a lot more than the litter of black coffee he had drunk 15 minutes earlier. But as soon as he reached the old walls he noticed that the fog wasn't as strong as he thought, since he could get a clear glimpse of the city in front of him.
5 a.m. and no sound besides the river to accompany him. He loved this silence, and he would love to share it with her. Suddenly he turned to the side and imagined her brown long beautiful hair, her adriatic blue eyes, her paper thin delicate lips, and that adorable pointing nose he loved so much. He imagined her, elbows on the small wall, shivering with the cold, just begging for an hug. He decided to give it to her, and, pointing down to the bridge 20 meter away from them he started:
"See this bridge? There used to be, way before this one existed, this other bridge "the boats bridge" they called it. It had a lot of boats, anchored in the river, with wood panels connecting them, and people used them to cross from this side of the river to Porto."
"Really?" She would say, semi-interested, semi-happy that the uncomfortable silence had come to an end.
"Yes, then when Napoleon troops invaded Portugal for the second time, and came to Porto, all people run through and eventually the bridge broke down. After that they build the Wellington bridge, which was a suspended bridge, and its pillars are still there, can you see them?"
"Not well, but what about this fortress? Why didn't people refuged here?"
"It didn't exist yet, it was built after that, actually there is a funny story about this fortress, remember how I told you Porto people are called "tripeiros"? "The animal guts"?
"Yes, that is kind of hard to forget, people must really not like you at all." she laughed, and her smile opened most of her face in the most amazing and beautiful non spoken invitation he had ever received to laugh with someone.
"No, no, it's exactly the opposite" he said between laughs " Actually it's a really big compliment."
"Really?"
"Yes, in the 18th century, after the Napoleonic invasions, and Brazil's independence, we had a civil war, between D. Pedro, king of Portugal and first emperor of Brazil, and his brother D. Miguel, who was married to D. Pedro's daughter"
"To his own nephew?"
"Yes… old royalty…you know, anyways, during the civil war, D. Pedro's troops arrived from Brasil after its independence and arrived in Porto, D. Miguel's troops sieged them in this fortress and hoped they would die from hunger. And Porto people who were loyal to Pedro would give the meat they had to the troops, and yet the remains. every night they would fill a boat that would cross from there to that point right below us, see? then they would climb this hill and give the food to the people in the fortress and run away. back."
"And so they would give the meat to the soldiers and only have the guts?"
"Yeap, pretty much"
"And you still eat those "trips tripes tripas" whatever they are, today?"
"Yeap, a blessing in disguise actually" he would laugh. And she would make a nausea face just for the hell of it giving it up for the same breath-taking smile she had done a few moments earlier.
He started going down the hill, turned around to the bridge and walked over, with the dream fading away, but feeling warm from its energy. A yellow subway passed and he remembered Vienna and the U6 and the times he saw that city waking up while he was already or still in the street. 3 or 4 people inside, the city was opening its eyes. The Sun rose up behind him and the sun rays lightened up everything in his sight, the riverside, the Port wine cellars, the gardens to the Cristal Palace, Arrábidas Bridge, the river, and the ocean. And right now, there was no one else he would like to share this with besides her.
The city opened another eye, and saw him there, standing on that 200 year old bridge alone, with a smile on his face, his hair wet, and those dreamy eyes. It yawned making a few seagulls fly over his head, shook its head making the raindrops fall from the buildings into the streets, and whispered to his ear:
"Another wishing-full heart right?"
"How do you know?"
"You are part of me boy, I just know."
He smiled proud for the compliment, Porto smiled proud of his son and said really quietly as if not to wake up anyone else:
"It's her, For sure, it's her"
"What if she doesn't feel that?"
"Bring her here, after she understands you here, she'll feel that…"
Then from the top of the old Sé's bells it just yelled:
"Wake up people. Time to wake up"
And to him again:
"Come on, move along now, she'll come… don't worry.She'll come, and I'll fall in love as much you did."

Walking in direction to S. Bento's train station, the trains brought the first people, that he could see coming out of the building, far far away.
A bus, two taxis stopped in the traffic light…
5 minutes later he was just part of the crowd. But now he knew she would come.



This is why you have to come down here J. An whole city is waiting for you :p

Celta

DISCLAIMER: isto não é nem poesia nem prosa, nem letra e é tudo isso ao mesmo tempo enfim...

Ah e é para ler ao som de: http://www.youtube.com/watch#!v=DMC9r3aDpBI&feature=related


Bucólicas brisas na minha cara celta, o mar à frente as costas verdes,
Galiza na certa, e eu, recentemente sem passado não sei da minha herança
sou galego ou lusitano, português? quem me afiança, a genética, a parecença
a poética, a cadência, a língua, a cabeça, a minha crença já se foi, com
o meu orgulho desfeito, e com despeito admito, que agora entendo o que
convosco não partilho e faz muito mais sentido saber-me mais portuense
que português, mais nortenho que vocês, mais atlântico que europeu, nunca
lusitano eu, que até simpatizo com Viriato, antes galego, céltico, de espada
em punho e de facto, a revolta, a vontade, a anti-autoridade, o ódio ao
centralismo, a antipatia por quem não trabalha e é rico, de repente faz
sentido, tudo faz sentido, até os meus olhos claros, e o gaélico me ter soado
tão belo na Irlanda, as gaitas de foles ouvidas nos lados de Miranda, a
vontade de me perder na Coruña e no Porto, o desprezo pelo poder e por
quem se rende ao conforto, abandonando a ideologia, eu quero autonomia,
quero independência e por isso me Ipirango todos os dias, usando mais B's
em vez de V's dobrando os l' em lh's e sonhando mais vês? Sorrio bem mais
Porque sou bem mais, vitais as raízes os países a que me acostumais
não são nações apenas fronteiras, e eu cá traço as minhas, as tradições e
as manhas são divinas e a civilização que é? se não a expansão de cada
um e a reunião do que todos são em comum? E que tenho de comum com Lisboa?
A língua? também com o Norte, a história? só metade o resto só o tenho
com o Norte. Convençam-se não é ódio mas pertenço mais ao que a Galiza
foi do que àquilo que Portugal é. Celta...

Como me poderei eu esquecer de memórias que não tive?
E contudo esqueço-as.

De mudanças que me prometi,
E que não vieram.
Ah preguiça; sempre tu..

ponteiros no relógio,
letras no calendário,
folhas nas árvores,
números em velas.

E a barba ficou-me maior,
o cabelo mais curto,
o discurso sarcástico,
o sorriso moveu-se centímetro
a
centímetro
para o canto da boca.
(até aí o desprezo ao centralismo)


Encontrou-me e disse: "Mudaste, estás diferente!"
"Não mudei, esqueci-me"
"De quê?"
"De ser também os outros."
"Fechaste-te? Os teus olhos parecem-me mais duros."
"Não, de todo, abri-me"
"A quê?"
"Às ideias, à terra,
ao que ficará cá depois de mim,
depois de ti, quando todos se esquecerem de nós"

Os antigos deixaram castelos,
Igrejas, túmulos, muralhas.
Nós deixamos o quê? Betão?
Por 50 anos? 100? 200?

Estamos condenados a ser
mero passo no livro do tempo
E
fé
me
ros.
Deuses maiores dos nossos mundos
apenas tão eternos quanto nós

Do alto do monte do largo da Igreja da Malpartida

Não foram quiçá os acordes pirosó-alegres do Metheny?
Ou os desafinanços crassos dos fadistas do La Feria?
Ou as noites mal dormidas de ontem, e anteontem?
E d'antes e d'hoje.

E Dantes é hoje comédia?
Não divina, mundana,
Na boca de quem de Infernos fala
Sem despeito algum em criá-los.

E minha geração reclama,
Ao café curto,
Ao copo de fino
Ao recibo que de esperança só tem a cor.

E minha geração não reclama
Ao Estado
Á comunicação social
Ás ruas.

Muito menos aos que nos puseram aqui,
e,
nos culpam de cá estarmos.

VOCÊS,
VOCÊS MATARAM O 25 do 4
VOCÊS MATARAM O 1 do 5
VOCÊS MATARAM A PRIMAVERA DO 74
VOCÊS MATARAM O VERÃO DO 75.

Agora acusam-nos
da violência
da falta de pensamento crítico
da falta de classe
do não sermos politicamente correctos
do não sermos socialmente maduros
de sermos ignorantes...

E para mim o correcto não é o politicamente
A cultura, a classe, a maturidade
Está em ser-me e em deixar ser,
E em viver verdade...

E na verdade...
QUERO QUE VOCÊS SE FODAM
Mais os críticos e os lambe-botas
E os nacionalistas e os instalados
E os subsidiários e os políticos
E os moralistas e os colunistas
E os escritores (aqueles mesmo de cordel e de pseudices que são quase quase quase quase todos)
E a comandita da Capital
E os ladrões do capital
E os banqueiros e os gestores das públicas
E mais os Mellos e os Champalimauds
E mais os Soares e os Coelhos
E os que dizem que o Saramago é que é ché ché
E que o Jardim diz as verdades
E que o Sócrates é líder
E que o Marcelo sabe.
E as caras da Caras
E as sombras por trás das caras
E as maçonarias e as secretas (a podridão do organismo social)
E as finanças e os défices (os botoxes do mesmo)
E os que não sabem fazer um filme sem mostrar mamas
E os que não sabem fazer um filme fora dum computador
E os que não sabem escrever sem um monitor
E os que não gostam de palavrões mas gostam de dizer "V O C Ê"...

Sigam-nos alegremente ribanceira abaixo...
Não nos fazem cá falta nenhuma.

Eu cá virei já as costas há muito
Sou nortenho, europeu e só depois, bastante depois português
Não porque não ame a minha pátria
Mas porque sempre que ouço falar em Portugal, me lembro de vocês...

E para mim, Lisboa não é capital.
Pobre e bela Lisboa, melhor sorte merecia
Lisboa é Lisboa apesar da Capital
E do Capital...

E da corja...

Cambada de Dantas.

Entre o neo-tradicionalismo e a ignorância

Facto: Meu pai tem umas cabras na antiga casa do meu avô, cabras estas que estão lá para comer as silvas e a relva.

Facto: Passamos por lá de semana a semana e damos-lhe umas cascas e algum pãozito duro que nos sobra por casa.

Facto: Há cerca de 3 semanas matámos uma, congelámo-la e temos feito chanfana.

Facto: Sempre que conto isto a alguma das meninas do "temos de manter as tradições vivas" olham sempre para mim com aquele ar de quem me acha o fulano mais horrível do mundo e dizem-me "A sério? Que horror"

Facto: Os homens a quem contei semelhante ainda não regiram assim.

Conclusão: As meninas em questão não passam dumas burguesinhas da cidade que acham muito simpática a tradição, mas que continuam a achar que o pessoal que vive da terra não passa duma cambada de saloios.

Provocação: Eu ao menos sei que cabra como, sei que lhe fiz festinhas no focinho e que lhe dei de comer, e que lhe pus palha na cama etc.. etc.. Da próxima vez que comerem um bifinho tenro pensem na vida do animal que estão a comer, criada numa "fábrica" de carne, sem comer nada que não ração, sem se poder mexer, e que foi criada apenas para morrer...

Cada um de si sabe minhas gentes, mas acho-vos a vocês que olham para mim como se fosse desumano uma cambada de ignorantes...